On Tradition

LINES PROVOKED BY HEARING A YOUNG MAN WHISTLING No carmine radical in Art, I worship at the shrine of Form; Yet open are my mind and heart To each departure from the norm. When Post-Impressionism emerged, I hesitated but a minute Before I saw, though it diverged, That there was something healthy in it. And eke when Music, heavenly maid, Undid the chains that chafed her feet, I grew to like discordant shade-- Unharmony I thought was sweet. When verse divorced herself from sound, I wept at first. Now I say: "Oh, well, I see some sense in Ezra Pound, And nearly some in Amy Lowell." Yet, though I storm at every change, And each mutation makes me wince, I am not shut to all things strange-- I'm rather easy to convince. But hereunto I set my seal, My nerves awry, askew, abristling: I'll never change the way I feel Upon the question of Free Whistling.